The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #4)

The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #4) Page 31

Quarles treated us to a coffeestained grin. Then he noticed my expression. "I hope I helped. You ain't looking too happy for somebody just solved a case."

"He's ecstatic," Lopez promised. "You'll do a Drugfire search for matches on the casing?"

"Yeah," Quarles promised. "That'll take a few more days. Christ, Navarre, I thought I was repaying some favours. You look like I just stabbed you in the back."

John Prine started singing about flag decals on Mr. Quarles' computer.

Lopez looked out into the parking lot, where a maroon LeBaron was just pulling in. A large militarytype AfricanAmerican man in a coat and tie was getting out of the LeBaron, glowering.

"Come on, Mr. Navarre," Lopez told me. "Thanks for your time, Quarles."

In the hallway, Lopez said, "There's a back way through the CODIS office. Take it."

"A hundred yards away, Lopez. I showed you where I found the bullet. You know this is wrong."

His eyes were burning. "I know what ninety percent means, Tres. I know what it'll mean to my sergeant, who's about to walk through that door. And Tres—the bad things I said about Miss Lee? Forget them. Your brother is going to need all the help he can get."

CHAPTER 27

At sunset, the top windows of Ruby McBride's dream house glowed orange.

Most of the yachts were out enjoying an evening cruise. The restaurant was nearly empty. The boat jockeys had little to do except smoke cigarettes, recline on their massive forklift, play cards at the lakefront.

I sat in my truck, idling at the bottom of Ruby's private driveway, trying to decide if I really had enough courage to face another human being.

I'd spent the afternoon at Jimmy's dome, hiding from reporters' phone calls, hiding from the news reports, finishing Jimmy's kiln at the waterfront.

Because of me, because of one brass casing, the investigation had gained lethal momentum. At 2:00 P.M., my brother had been formally charged with murder.

I should've called our sister, Shelley, in Wisconsin, broken her long, selfimposed exile from the family to give her the news. I should've called my mom in Colorado, ruined her vacation. As of yet, I hadn't done either.

At the top of Ruby McBride's driveway, her blue Miata glistened—noseout, ready for action. Up on Ruby's deck, I saw a flicker of red hair go past.

I put the F150 into gear, rumbled up the drive, and skidded to a diagonal stop, blocking the Mazda.

I got out of the truck, walked up the stairs. I heard two voices before I got to the top—Clyde Simms mumbling something, Ruby answering, "No!"

Clyde sat on the railing bench, looking about as happy as a fourthstring quarterback.

Ruby stood by the hot tub, running water over her hands with a garden hose. She'd been crying. Her hair hung in a stiff red mesh around her shoulders. She was barefoot, and an apron covered her Tshirt and shorts.

I could see why she wanted to wash off. Her apron and her hands were stained with blood.

"Damn you, Tres," she said. "Not now."

I pointed at the streaks of red on her apron. "What the hell—"

She dropped the hose, grabbed a bucket of pink water on the edge of the hot tub.

"We blew it," she told me. "We really blew it, didn't we?"

A big yellow sponge sloshed angrily around the bucket as she stormed off toward the kitchen area.

Clyde stared at me. "She's right, you know. You and that fucking brass casing."

A week's worth of anger surged inside me. I followed Ruby, yelling at her back, "I didn't sell out my own friends, Ruby. I didn't—"

And then I stepped inside and saw the problem.

Most of the room hadn't changed since I'd been here Sunday night. It was still a bare box of walls and windows, the floor littered with odd bits of lumber and power tools.

The far wall, however, looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. The sheetrock was marred with swathes of dark, sticky redbrown—crusty and thick and splattered. It smelled like a rending plant.

Ruby dropped her bucket, tried to wring pink water out of the sponge.

"When did it happen?" I asked.

She ignored me, tried to scrub the blood off the wall. She only managed to turn more of the sheetrock pink.

Clyde came up behind me.

"Wee hours," he said. "Workers didn't go to the upper level all day. They were doing wiring on the bottom floor. Ruby always goes up to the deck when she gets home in the afternoon."

"Somebody knew the workers' schedule," I said. "They wanted Ruby to be the one to find this."

Ruby kept working—rubbing at the stains, cursing, splattering herself with pink water.

"Found the deer about fifty yards downhill," Clyde told me, "gutted with a sharp knife.

My Dobe Miata ain't good for much, but she's got a decent nose. Bastard who did this carried a bucket of blood all the way here. He spilled some on the steps."

"Did you call the police?" I asked.

"The police," Ruby spat. She crushed the sponge in her fists, lines of red leaking down her forearms. "Tres, the police are fitting your brother's neck for a noose. They'd explain how he did this, probably lugged his wheelchair all the way up the stairs."

She kicked the sheetrock, then kept swiping at the blood.

"That's not doing anything." Clyde said it gently.

"My—goddamn—house." Every word was more elbow grease with the sponge.

"Ruby," Clyde said. "I told you I'd deal with it."

She flung the sponge in the bucket. "You will not deal with anything, Clyde. GET.

OUT."

I kept my eyes on Ruby. I didn't so much see Clyde leave as I felt it—his gravity suddenly missing from the doorway.

"Who did this?" I asked Ruby.

She wiped her hands on her apron. Her fingernails were scarlet crescents. "I don't know."

"Of course you don't. You don't know how Matthew Pena got inside Techsan's program. You don't know how Jimmy got shot. You don't know what that damn bullet casing was doing in the lake."

She’ closed the distance between us in two steps, then slapped me across the face. I didn't try to stop her. The sting was the first real sensation I'd had all day.

From somewhere out on the deck, Clyde called Ruby's name.

It wasn't an offer of help. More a warning.

Ruby stared back at her splattered wall, then at all the other places she'd managed to smear pink—the floor, the doorframe, the new kitchen counter.

"This is my house," she murmured. "No one can do this to my house."

"Someone did."

She closed her eyes. Her lips were trembling. "I'm all right. I just have to take care of things."

I tried to cup my hand around her elbow, but she yanked away, wrestled off her apron.

She washed her hands again, gathered up her shoes and purse, held them against her stomach like a melting football.

"Ruby—"

She brushed past me. "I'll fix it. Goddamn if I won't."

Clyde stood motionless at the railing, letting Ruby go.

I followed her down the steps.

When she got to the drive and found my car blocking hers, she headed down the hill, cursing as she stumbled barefoot over sharp pieces of broken limestone.

I followed about fifteen steps behind.

"Ruby," I called. "GO—AWAY!"

She'd made it to the marina parking lot now, started limping toward the docks. She dropped one of her shoes but kept walking— one parking space, two parking spaces.

"You think you can stop him, Ruby? You think he'll allow that?"

Three parking spaces.

"You told me Pena understood people," I called after her. "I guess you're right. He's sure got your number."

She whirled to face me.

The nearest boat jockeys had stood now, their poker game forgotten. One of them called, "Ms. McBride?"

"I'm all right!"

I picked up her Adidas, brought it to her.

"No one has my number, Tres," she told me. "No one."

"Pena wouldn't do something randomly. He'd pry into your past, look for weaknesses, pick something he knew would rattle you. Why deer blood, Ruby?"

"I didn't—" She choked, forced a shaky inhale. "No one destroys my property. That wasn't ..."

"Part of the deal?"

She snatched the shoe, hobbled over to the nearest car, slid down against the bumper, and started fumbling with her laces. "I can make things right, Tres.

At least I'm going to try."

It was the same thing Garrett had told me five days ago.

There was blood between two of Ruby's toes—her own blood now—but she didn't seem to notice.

One of the boat jockeys called, "Ms. McBride? You sure—"

"Leave me alone!" She tugged on a shoe, started picking at the laces of the other.

"You can't confront Pena," I told her. "Not by yourself. Don't be stupid."

"I'm not confronting Pena."

Her purse lay in the gravel. The black butt of a gun—probably the one I'd seen on her boat the day before—peeked out the top.

"I can fix this," she told me again. "But I have to do it. Carefully. You can't help me, Tres. Neither can Clyde. I'm not asking you to understand—"

She stopped, looked out toward the water. "Maybe I am asking you to understand.

Jimmy is dead. Garrett doesn't have a clue what's really going on. I can fix this. But that can't happen if I don't go out tonight—by myself."

Ruby got her other shoe on, stood up. The setting sun turned her shadow into stilt person.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"You could follow me, Tres. You could seriously screw this up. But I'm asking you—if it were the other way around, would you want me to stop you? Would you like it if I barged in, assumed I had the right to tell you what was safe, what you needed to do?"

The boat jockeys had gone back to their game and their cigarettes. Clyde hadn't moved from the top of the deck.

"I want to make amends," Ruby said. "I was serious about that, Tres. You were right.

It's my fault—I opened the door."

"The back door."

She closed her hand into a fist. "All right. Yes. Now let me stop it."

She shouldered her purse.

She seemed to be part of the sunset—her entire form glowing red. I felt like I could touch her, and I would disappear into the glare.

"Be careful," I told her.

She let out a long, relieved exhale, came up and kissed me roughly on the cheek, exactly where she had slapped me. "I'll make it all right."

She turned and walked toward the docks—toward the Ruby, Too.

I watched her until she got to the pier, then I headed back up the drive, toward the tower where Clyde was still playing gargoyle.

I wouldn't say he was exactly waiting for me at the top of the stairs, but he was there—leaning against the redwood railing, looking over the tops of the live oaks toward Mansfield Dam.

Ruby's hot tub cover had been peeled off. I hadn't remembered it being like that a few minutes before. Water bubbled and rumbled and small objects bobbed in it—pecans, though where these would've come from in early June I had no idea.

"Where's she running off to?" I asked.